


Brother's Little Helper

by one_red_sock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Chubby Dean, Pre-Slash, Stanford Era, belly stuffing, feederism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:41:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5185643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_red_sock/pseuds/one_red_sock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters come up with a better, tastier way than credit card scams to make ends meet. And it might just be changing their relationship. (Set in some amorphous Stanford year, pre-season, where Dean and Sam are both in California, living together, and not really hunting. Maybe stabbing at normal life?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother's Little Helper

“Holy shit.”

Dean shifts on the couch, the TV remote sitting on the crest of his sizable belly, and arches a brow in his little brother's direction. Sam is perched at the chipped Formica bar that separates their galley kitchen from the rest of the apartment, rangy shoulders hunched over his laptop and a cold cup of coffee forgotten in one hand.

“Ho-lee shit,” Sam repeats. He might even be grinning.

“What?” Dean grunts, half-annoyed. He doesn't want to haul his fat ass from his comfy spot in front of Friday Night Football to pry the info out of Sam. _Really_ doesn't. But when Sam only hums and keeps staring at the laptop, Dean sighs and sets the remote aside. He sucks in his gut to fasten his jeans back up after dinner, and rocks to his feet. “This'd better be worth it, bean pole.”

Dean rolls his way to the bar, tugging at his waistband where it pinches. Time for sweatpants, he realizes somewhat wistfully.

“Dude, look.” Sam pokes a finger at the screen. “Contributions and subscriptions have almost _doubled_.” He's wide-eyed with awe. “All because … I helped?”

Dean bullies Sam aside with his heft and leans forward to squint at the numbers. And the comments. A slow smirk spreads across his face. “ _Exactly_ because you helped.”

Sam sinks an elbow into Dean's gut and snorts. “Oookay.”

“Hey, we don't bite the hand that feeds us.”

“Literally.”

“Looks like you're gonna be 'brother's little helper' from here on out, huh?”

Sam wrinkles his brow and pulls a face, hmphing.

When they'd started this whole scheme—one year and almost seventy pounds ago—they'd had no clue what a successful racket it would become. It looked like fun to try, given how much Dean got into eating and how easy it was for Sam to set up the site and network their way into the feederism community. They never imagined people would pay real cash money to watch Dean stuff himself into a food coma. With each stuffing, he could wedge in a little more and build a bigger belly, and the bigger it got, the better they liked it.

And the more the dollars rolled in.

Dean was also covertly surprised how fucking good it felt, that edge of pain and the full, fat feeling of his belly testing the boundaries of his shirt. Of his skin. He'd never admit as much to Sam, but he didn't exactly hide it, either. Sam may have thought all the moaning and rubbing was for show, but, well, it really wasn't.

Last session, for shits and giggles and because Sam had a few beers in his system, he'd ignored the fact they were live and wandered onto screen to help Dean load up on pizza rolls. He'd made a big to-do about setting the full plate on Dean's belly, grinning boozily before heading back into the kitchen to throw another batch in the oven. As it so happened, Sam was _somebody's_ type out there, and his brief co-starring appearance tickled their fanclub's fancy no small amount. Which, okay, wasn't awful.

Dean knows Sam can't deny the math. Numbers don't lie. He hipchecks into Sam and nearly sends the kid sliding off the stool. “Hey, at this rate, we'll be able to buy our own house before you're a junior.”

“You think?” Sam's voice lilts up.

“If we play our cards right, hell yeah.”

“Huh,” Sam says thoughtfully.

 

So, every so often, Sam peeks his head on-screen and waves to the camera, lets the audience decide what Dean's going to chow down on next. The revenues keep inching upwards. It's not too shabby.

Then they get an interesting email, and it ever-so-easily shifts them into new territory. If they thought the feederism was a little weird, this capped it. But weird was also profitable.

“Hey, Dean.”

“Hmm?”

“Read this.”

Dean peers over Sam's shoulder, and his brows tug down. Then shoot up. Then level off somewhere in the middle. “Is this for real?”

Sam clicks the tab to their Paypal screen. There's a recent, and substantial, deposit from the sender of the email. For groceries. And a private stuffing session. “Yep. One month's rent worth of real.”

Dean lets out a low whistle. “What's the catch?”

Sam shrugs. “Well, I guess I'm supposed to … help? Like, _feed_ you.”

They're both quiet for a few minutes and Dean mulls over the weird vs. profit ratio. “You can be sure this is private?”

“As private as possible. I mean, we can negotiate terms with—” he squints at the name on the receipt “—'Emeline'—”

“Hella sexy name.”

“Right, whatever. We can negotiate terms to spell out what will happen if we find the session floating around on-line somewhere. And of course, we'll never do it again so she'd just be shooting herself in the foot by breaking our contract.”

They're quiet a second time, Dean chewing the inside of his cheek. Okay, so Sam would be feeding him, which yeah, was a fresh new level of freakiness, but not illegal and certainly not the kinkiest thing Dean's ever done before. And a little part of him thinks he'll kinda enjoy being catered to, taken care of. Doesn't happen very often, if ever. What could it hurt? If it bombs, they won't do it again but next month's rent is solidly covered so it wouldn't be a total waste, regardless.

He shrugs and commits. “I'm game. When?”

“Tomorrow night. At seven.”

“Eager little beaver. Well then, you'd better get shopping, Sammy!” He skims the grocery list and has to admit, she knows his tastes pretty damned well.

 

_Evening, boys._

They both startle when the words appear in the chat window. Sam cracks his knuckles, glances at Dean, then begins typing. 'Emeline' is perfectly punctual, showing up at the stroke of 7, and Sam tells her as much.

 _I like things the way I like them, when I like them,_ comes the response.

Dean bites his lip and decides he appreciates their benefactor already. She's straightforward, even though he's not naive enough to be 100% certain she's actually a she. Doesn't matter one whit to him. This is a business deal, nothing more, nothing less. He keeps reminding himself of this, even though anticipation flutters in his empty belly.

“Okay, Eddy, sit in the chair so I can get everything lined up,” Sam says, using Dean's on-line alias (ganked from Eddy VanHalen) and spinning the laptop to face a plain wooden chair, positioned in the middle of the living room. They'd shoved the bikes and backpacks out of the way to provide a flat, off-white backdrop, and Dean's in a gray t-shirt for good contrast. Sam, ever the nit-picker, had insisted.

Dean can see himself filling up the screen in profile, Emeline's chat window scrolling off to one side. He knows he's put on some serious weight, and his silhouette on the monitor makes him keenly aware of it. His stomach mounds onto his thighs and his upper arms stretch the boundaries of his short sleeves. Shit, he's even getting a soft chin. He still lifts weights at the university to stay solid, but there's no question that in the past year, Dean has officially gotten fat. He's a little conflicted, but now isn't the time to fret over it.

_Very good. I like it._

Sam grins, but Dean can tell he's as nervous about this he is. “Can you hear me?”

_Yes, loud and clear, cutie._

Dean cackles. “Aw, you made Jack blush.” Jack, being Sam's handle (ganked from Kerouac).

_Give me time, and I'll make you blush too._

Yeah, Dean really likes Emeline.

_Time to start, boys. Eddy, can you put your hands behind the chair? Please?_

Dean shrugs and sees no harm in this. He clasps his hands behind his back.

_Jack, I think Eddy would like the onion rings now._

“Man, this is so weird...” Sam mumbles, but Dean just grins wide and opens his mouth. Sam stuffs an onion ring into it, pulling a scowl. It's the first of many delectables Emeline has requested they use; clearly, she's familiar with Dean's eating habits. Sam stands awkwardly bent, feeding Dean onion rings, until the large order is gone. 

_Thirsty, Eddy?_

“Yes, ma'am.” Dean nods, brushing breading crumbs off his shirt.

_Did Jack buy you soda?_

“Yep.”

_Well, then, go right ahead!_

Sam brings Dean the liter of Coke from the pile of groceries on their kitchen table.

_Make me proud, Eddy._

Now it's Sam's turn to shrug, but Dean knows exactly what he wants to do. He settles back and takes as many gulps as he can, pauses, stifles a burp or three, then takes another round of swallows. He repeats the process until he's downed half the liter and expelled as much of the carbonation as discreetly as he can. He's an old hand at this; he knows the pop will work wonders on the swell of his belly.

_Ready for a burger, Eddy?_

“You know it,” Dean says on a hiccup, settling his hands behind his back again and smacking his lips. 

Sam rolls his eyes as he folds back the paper wrapper of a bacon double cheeseburger, medium rare, just the way Dean likes them. He holds the sandwich as Dean takes a big bite, juices dribbling down his chin. “Dude, watch the fingers!”

_Pull up a chair, Jack. This is going to take a while._

They exchange a glance, but she's right. Sam drags a folding chair in front of Dean and sits, the bag of food between his knees. There are five burgers, per her directions, and the first two go down easily. Dean slows his pace for the third, though Sam has established a sort of rhythm—bite of burger, swallow of Coke, wash, rinse, repeat—between swipes of a napkin. The fourth becomes a struggle, as Dean is feeling the boundaries of his stomach. His t-shirt has ridden up to show a pillow of flesh, he can see it on the monitor, and thank god he thought to wear sweatpants. The mere thought of a waistband makes the ache in his belly amp up.

It's a good ache, though, if there's such a thing. Dean squirms and wants to rub his middle, but he catches himself and grabs his chair instead, arching his back with a grunt.

“One more burger,” Sam says quietly, and he's not making eye contact. Which is weird. “Can you do it?”

Dean scoffs. “Of course I can do it, come on. Get real.”

Sam unwraps the final burger, his actions slower and more deliberate. He flicks his eyes up, and his pupils are blown wide. Dean isn't sure quite what to make of this, so he just opens his mouth and lets Sam keep feeding him, willfully forcing his mind to stick to the business of eating. He almost forgets about the growing pressure in his gut, watching Sam's fingers and the precise way he peels back the wrapper. When the last bite is gone and the last slug of Coke swallowed, Dean is well and truly _finished_ , and the ache has gone from “good” to thoroughly overdone. He rocks his head back and groans. He'd been watching Sam so closely, he didn't realize how warm it had gotten in the room, sweat breaking out across his forehead and making the food bomb in his belly feel twice as dense, solid. The soda swells him so tight, he can barely budge. Dean widens his legs to let his gut settle between his thighs. Doesn't help much.

Sam carefully drops the empty wrapper back into the bag and drags his gaze to the computer again.

_Jack. I think Eddy needs his belly rubbed._

Sam's eyes are wide when he turns them back to Dean. 

The chair creaks as Dean shifts, his t-shirt as snug as a sausage casing. “It's just a job,” Dean tells Sam. Tells himself. “You heard the lady.” He might even have pressed his bloated gut out farther, his skin stinging. He needs this rub so bad, he doesn't give a damn if the whole internet sees this.

Sam clears his throat and swipes his palms on his jeans. He quirks a quick, insincere smile as he plucks the hem of Dean's shirt between his fingertips and inches it up, glancing over at the screen. Dean has to look, too. His stomach is bulging, pale and taut, as round as a fucking medicine ball. The evidence of its growth, bright pink stretch marks, line his flanks. Love handles swell over the straining elastic of the sweatpants, and Sam pokes a knobby finger into the fat.

The stab of pain makes Dean grimace and puff out breath. Sam pulls back his hand for a second, but then he clears his throat and spreads his long, piano-player fingers into two identical fans. Cupping Dean's paunch on either side, Sam cruises warm palms across the engorged flesh, gently applying pressure in measured strokes. At first, it hurts, the skin stretched and hyper-sensitive, but then it starts to feel good as the bulk is massaged and Dean's over-taxed belly begins to relax.

Sam supports the weight briefly before kneading lightly upwards, circumnavigating Dean's huge stomach in sweeping clockwise movements. Methodical, thorough. 

Dean lets out a gruff hum, breathing shallow because he can't breathe any other way, and lets his eyes droop closed, indulging in the way Sam's touch eases whatever cramps he'd forced upon himself. After a few more passes, it seems as though the food and drink settle into an exaggerated sense of comfort. He's full to capacity and satisfied. Hell, he even finds his dick chubbing up, what with the way Sam caresses, the way his gut presses down heavily on his lap and the way, God help him, he wants more. But it would be dangerous, if not downright impossible.

Drifting his eyes open again, Dean finds Sam staring at him, his hands stilled at the crest of Dean's stomach. 

“She, um, she wants you to have dessert, Eddy.” 

Dean feels a flash of panic, like if he has one more bite, he'll rock this delicate balance between pain and pleasure, or maybe even rupture something. A line of sweat tickles down the side of his face.

Sam blinks, distress furrowed across his brow. “I won't if you say no. I mean, it's not worth—”

“Yes,” Dean says before he can stop himself. Sam's eyes are so soft and dark, his lips so pink. “I can do it. Just...just a taste.” 

“You sure?” Sam nearly whispers.

Dean nods, feels a cool brush of air across his sweaty neck.

“Okay.” Sam gets up and has to readjust himself, Dean notes. And fuck, that doesn't help at all.

Sam returns with a fork, a look of guarded eagerness, and a single slice of pie, coconut cream, on a small plate. “She says you can stand up if you want. Says it'll help.”

Dean's not even sure he can squirm, let alone stand. But Sammy's looking at him, and there's that pie and the promise of another month's rent paid if they make Emeline happy, so he figures he can manage to get vertical. He mentally counts to three and using his arms for leverage, hauls to his feet with a grunt and a sway and an ache. “Shit, I feel like a frickin' whale.”

“You _look_ like a frickin' whale,” Sam confirms, but he's got this tiny little quirk of a smile. 

Dean eats the pie, hardly tasting it for watching Sam's face … the spots of color on his cheeks and the way his tongue runs over his bottom lip when he's not paying attention. The food is hitting Dean's system like a blanket of lethargy, making the room sway and his brain a little bit muzzy, and he just wants to flop down on the couch, feet up, belly out. But mostly he wants _someones's_ big hands massaging his bloated, suffering middle. If he just leans forward a few inches … Sam's hand is right there … 

Sam clears his throat and takes a small step back, clicking the fork against the empty plate. “You, um, you okay? I mean, your shirt is, um.”

“There is no way I'm pulling my shirt down. It'd be like, like unringing a bell. Unstuffing a sausage. Un—”

“The more you talk, the more you sweat. We'll need water wings here in five minutes.”

“Then I'll just take the shirt off. Who needs shirts?” Dean rocks, staring at Sam's tongue against his teeth. “But I can't lift up my arms. My arms, they're like lead. Lead filled with hamburgers. Come on, _Jackie_.”

“Come on what, _Eddy_? Dessert's done. And from the looks of things, one more bite and you'll spring a leak.”

Dean puffs his cheeks and blows out, palming his flanks himself since clearly Sam isn't catching the hint and Dean is a heartbeat away from a food stupor. The couch is calling his name. “What's Emmeline say?”

Sam blinks, suddenly snapping back to their audience. “Yeah. I, uh, yeah.” He gestures with one finger and returns to the laptop, skimming. “Oh. She says 'Thank you, boys.'”

“That's it?” Dean squints.

“That's it.” Sam sets the plate down. “And 'See you next week.'”

“Next week?”

“What's this? Twenty Questions?” But when Sam looks up again, he's grinning big enough to spring dimples, and his cheeks are still flushed. “We done good.”

Dean plays it cool, manages a thumbs-up gesture before waddling to the other side of the room and crashing back onto the couch.

Next week. Alrighty, then. 

He squirms a big divot into the cushion as his gut bounces. He's full, painfully full, but … happy. 

This could work.


End file.
